


Simple Impulsivity

by sp8ce



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, M/M, Mania, Medication, Post-Season/Series 07, Season/Series 07, Talking, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:59:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp8ce/pseuds/sp8ce
Summary: It really doesn't take more than a night of manic symptoms for Ian to snap and reach out to Mickey.





	Simple Impulsivity

It’s a manic moment when he snaps, and that’s the last thing he was looking for. Grieving Monica, some mother he’d always wished would stay, late up at night with frantic energy pulsing through him. All in all, it was a long time coming. His willpower was good, so very good he could swallow pills if it meant he got his life (at all) or run miles and do pushups and spend hours on math to get the life he wanted. (No, that’s the past, that doesn’t exist.)

And he was taking his meds; he was. And he could _look back_ , but he didn’t; he really didn’t. It hurt to look back, and what was the use of that anyways? He’d tried to have a therapist once because his doctor’d asked him to, and she was nice. But the second he mentioned anything from his past, hell any time he barely even _thought_ of his past (Mickey... mania or depression or Yevgeny. The lights of the club or the dim light over Mickey’s naked body...) it either hurt or didn’t even register as anything at all. So when he mentioned Mickey’s name, he’d wrapped the session up. In fact, it probably seemed like he was storming out. He never went back. But he was still taking his meds. Healing. All of that.

Monica’s death triggered something else, though. Images. He could see a depression in a blur. Or was it depression? Travel and cold and desperate want for _Mickey Mickey Mickey._

Mickey was in Mexico. Ian left Mickey to go to Mexico. Ian said goodbye. These were the facts, but they were in the past. It didn’t matter anymore. It’s not like there was anything Ian could do.

But he still had that phone, and he knew he had that phone no matter how many times he told himself that there was _nothing_ he could do, that Mickey was gone from his life forever, but he still had it, and there was some chance Mickey would get a message from the number Ian knew.

So he snaps, and he didn’t want it to be because of his bipolar. But that thinking at all meant that yes, he was consciously thinking of it, he wanted to do it if he regretted not doing it right, but it doesn’t matter because he did it wrong like he does everything wrong.

_I know that it was the meds you said the mesd we the thing the pills the drugs i get fuckin ntsu you said that and im sorry i took it wall rang wrong i took it them i am on them i am on them now so you would stay but you were goneand i gonldncoultnt i couldnt mickey mickeyI love you i dont know what’s happening im sorry im like this but I never ment to leveae you but I couldnt be impulsive i couldnt be happ_

He sends it before he can think about it. It says it’s delivered. But something happens. Some dam breaks.

_I feel manic but i wsear im not or i shouldnt be lnot like this i but I MEAN IT I MEAN TEVERY WORD I SAY I LOVE YOU_

_please come bakc_

_Oh right you cant i forge t_

_I hav eso many thoughts in my head so fast but tis not good its always good mick but its not this time and i just want you like i always want you always always always_

_God i need to esotp_

_Htis is bad i need thosop_

_But YOU GOOtaa know that it wasn’t_

_Id tell you id fly there right now jut sto beg you but i cant because i would need to take some downers and chill the fuckk out first and by the time that heappsnes youll have either told me to fuck off or have no received this anywahs so i gouclnt get to you_

_She died mick she died and i she was ron wro about it no I was no if you want me wth the drugs tha doesn’t matter is ee now i wa s batshit without them its okay_

_I will stop notw i just will toss this out the window that will make me stop._

So he does before he can think about it. He tosses the phone right out the window, then tries to sleep, but he can’t. For a minute he finds it very funny, the fact that the grief (if you could call it that) of Monica’s death triggered mania, considering he would never have to be manic if it weren’t for her.

In hindsight, Ian probably should’ve prepared better. There was no way the first thing he did the second he lost an ounce of impulse control wouldn’t be text Mickey. He was fighting the impulse every day. It itched at him even when he felt like nothing at all.

He curls up in bed and nearly falls asleep, thoughts racing, agony from lack of stimulation, until the sun rises. At least it was his day off. Maybe he could figure himself out quickly and not have to miss work. Work was his salvation at this point. It was what kept him grounded in a way nothing else around him did. He had a reason to continue taking his medication. He had a reason to want to be stable. He had a life.

He gets mail the next day, and he’s thankful that he yawns when he walks to pick it up.

“This an army thing, Ian?” Fiona asks, and she looks concerned. “Looks official.” Ian shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know. He opens it to find a passport. Right, that had been an ordeal to get, he remembers. Tracking down his birth certificate, the pictures, the money, but he’d forgotten about it since he’d done it a while back. (Immediately after).

“Wow, what do you need a passport for?” she asks, a little astonished. He shrugs again.

“You never know,” he supplies. She accepts it. He decides to have some beer to try to knock himself out for a few hours since he really didn’t sleep (which is a trigger for mania, according to his doctor, as well as a symptom of it), but he’s still tired from the lack of sleep, so many he thinks he could play this out without having to take any more meds. He grabs a beer, but then remembers the phone he threw out the window last night. Now that his thoughts are making more (tired) sense, he feels ashamed of last night and hope beyond hope that Mickey never sees the messages.

At least he’d be relieved, Ian thinks. He’d be relieved that he didn’t take a fucking crazy twink with him.

(It’s just one mess up; it’s okay. You’re medicated. You’re not Monica. You’re not Monica.)

Against all odds, there’s a new message on the phone.

**Ian?! is this ur version of drunk calling me. i cant make sense of ur texts call me**

Ian doesn’t know what to do (isn’t it simple? Call him!). He’s starting to shake, and he’s very tired (which is good, good, good), and he just wants to sleep, but he shaking because he can’t believe Mickey got back to him. Why would he ever? Especially after Ian went and made it worse. Why couldn’t Ian just get a hold of himself and his stupid fucking impulses and his stupid destruction? Maybe he really did need to raise his dosage.

He calls Mickey though. How can he not? Mickey picks up on the third ring, and his voice is rough when he says, “ _Ian?_ ”

“The one and only,” Ian says, but he feels sick to his stomach. Maybe that’s anxiety? Maybe that’s skipping breakfast despite two of his meds needing to be taken with food? Maybe that’s hearing Mickey’s voice, god his voice, when Ian thought he’d never hear it again.

“The fuck you doing saying shit to me like that?”

“I’m sorry,” Ian offers. He really has nothing else to offer.

“I don’t know what the fuck you were saying, but who died?” Mickey asks. Oh, that’s why he responded. He was going to be disappointed to find it was Ian’s crazy mother who was even crazier than Ian himself was.

“Monica,” Ian admits. “No one important.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Mickey responds. And Ian has to smile because wow he didn’t realise exactly he needed to hear say that to him.

“The rest was just b.s.”

“Like fucking telling me you loved me?” Mickey says, and he really does sound shocked. You know his voice well enough to tell when he’s upset, and he’s upset.

“I mean, it’s not like you don’t know it’s true.”

“Well, what country are you in?” he challenges, and Ian feels he needs to retreat.

“What? Haven’t moved on yet?” Ian parries. “Haven’t found someone as good at fucking you as I am?” It comes off vicious and scalding, but Ian mostly is just _dying_ to know, dying to take the first plane to Mexico. Dying to once again give in on his impulses. But he can’t. He can’t let mania or toxic situations or reckless people screw up this life he has to try so hard to maintain.

“Who’s the one drunk texting who?” Mickey replies, but Ian can tell that he hurt him. _Fuck_. That wasn’t his intention. “Why don’t I just hang up and lose this fucking number.”

“No, wait!” Ian says quickly, even though he could’ve bet that Mickey wasn’t being serious. Mickey scoffs at Ian’s immediate reaction, but Ian knows he’s relieved. Ian knows Mickey’s still hurt from all this. “I had just wanted to say that the reasons weren’t. Valid. That it’s fine that you wouldn’t.” Wow, he thought he could handle this outloud, but he can’t.

“I wouldn’t want, Ian? There’s nothing I could’ve fucking done,” Mickey responds.

“If you wouldn’t want to stay with me while I was fucking crazy,” Ian spills, and the cat’s out of the bag. It doesn’t matter. It’s several years too late. It’s a world away. And he already had his chance. They could be sorting this out in Mexico. They could be good.

“The fuck you on about?” Mickey says. “I was with you.” Ian’s mind feels like it’s seizing up. It feels like Mickey’s playing head games with him, but Ian know he’s not.

“I asked you, Mick, _I asked you._ ” Ian realises, like he’s watching from outside of his body, that he’s propelling himself backwards, back before he was medicated, back into his past. That it’s all coming back. The hurt. “And you told me that I get ‘Fucking nuts when I don’t,’” his voice is going to fucking crack. He can feel it all over again. The rejection. The knowledge that Mickey no longer loved him, that he had to go down this road that he was destined for anyways to survive. Ian realises he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s going to hurt Mickey more.

“So you’re manic right now?” Mickey asks. Somehow, Ian’d been looking for reprieve. For Mickey, for Mickey to just _once_ tell Ian that he’d love him anyways. Ian’s dangerously close to an edge, everything is flooding back, and he doesn’t know how he’d not go to Mexico tonight if Mickey just told him that.

“I don’t think so. Sometimes the meds aren’t perfect,” he says.

“What is your point here?” Mickey asks, and Ian realises that that’s something he should figure out alright.

“I needed to tell you that it’s okay, that I shouldn’t have expected you to...” Ian doesn’t want to say it. But he wants to fix it. But he can’t fix it. Because he still expects it. “Expect you to deal with me being fucking insane. I see that now.”

“Why are you talking like I decided anything?” Mickey retorts, and now he _actually_ sounds angry. Ian feels anger curl in his veins in response.

“I guess you didn’t,” Ian retreats. “And I am medicated now. So why does it even fucking matter.”

“Obviously,” Mickey starts. “It does.” Mickey pauses, and Ian doesn’t know if he should speak up before Mickey continues. “I told you that I’d be with you through anything.”

“You’d already told me otherwise,” Ian scoffs, and he actually manages to scoff.

“I didn’t know you were medicated when I planned on taking you to fucking Mexico with you and spending the rest of my damned life with you,” he says, and there’s too much vulnerability in his voice. Ian wants to smash it away. Ian can’t put together what Mickey means by that. It’s too much. Ian just assumed Mickey would’ve assumed Ian was stable, but Mickey didn’t ever ask.

“I made a mess of things,” Ian admits. “I ruined it, didn’t I? Not at the border. Before that. Losing my fucking mind.”

“No, you ruined it at the border,” Mickey says. “Actually, scratch that, you didn’t.”

“I hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey admits. “Did you mean it? Or was that some manic thing.”

“What?”

“You said you wanted to fly here,” Mickey says, and now his voice is small, and Ian wants to say yes so badly.

“Would you want me to?” Ian asks instead.

“What? Let you break my fucking heart again?”

“Probably risk it,” Ian admits. “But if I did move to a new country and leave my life behind for you, I doubt I’d be planning it.” Ian doesn’t say how he just wants to be with Mickey for the rest of his life. That isn’t necessary.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I would want you to. But not now.”

“What?” Ian responds.

“I’m living rough,” Mickey supplies, and Ian gives out a laugh.

“I can live rough,” Ian replies.

“Let me get my shit sorted,” Mickey says.

“I need get stable first too,” Ian says, and then the feeling of rejection twists in his gut again.

“But once you’re stable you won’t want to, right,” Mickey says. He laughs as if it’s nothing.

“Oh, I’ll want to,” Ian says. “I just do smart shit, like, say, get a passport, so I can get back, and maybe give notice on my job, so I don’t prove that crazy people don’t deserve to have jobs.”

“I guess we’ve got some thinking to do.”

“You know I still might get manic, right?” Ian says. He doesn’t know why he’s pushing this. Maybe because it’s because it was the reason why he broke up with someone he loved so much at one point in time, and he’s talking to that person now. “My meds don’t always work. I’m going to be sick for the rest of my life.”

“The fuck you want me to say? That I love you? Because I do,” Mickey says. “That I was scared I was never going to hear from you again, and I honestly didn’t know how to face not ever knowing what state you’re in? You know, I bet I know more about bipolar disorder than you do.”

“No shit?” Happiness? Wow, Ian’d almost forgotten that. It twists through the meds and fights its way to connect in his mind.

“That shit you were spouting earlier is bullshit, you know that right? I was terrified for you and hurt, and yeah maybe seeing you sedated and in that place...”

“I hate the way the meds make me feel,” Ian says, and honestly, it’s true, but he does plan on taking them.

“Okay,” Mickey says, and that’s new.

“You gonna stay with me if I don’t take them?”

“As much as I can,” Mickey says.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can’t just fucking do,” Mickey starts, and he’s angry, but he pulls back. “It means we’d need to set boundaries.”

“What if you don’t like me on the meds?” Ian asks.

“Fuck, Ian, you’re the one who left _me_ ,” Mickey says. Ian doesn’t know what to say. “I love you. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“The “I love you” part,” Ian admits and tentatively laughs. “So we sort our shit out?”

“I think that sounds like a good plan.”

“Call me again?” Ian asks.

“Soon,” Mickey replies. He hangs up.

Maybe impulsivity isn’t all bad, Ian thinks, as he heads back to his room to pass out. Maybe there’s something left in him that’s still allowed to feel alive.

**Author's Note:**

> The things Ian said in the original scene breaking up with Mickey were the most haunting things I could've heard at the time. I remember how real his thought processes were and seeing how he could see things like that, how horrible it is, going through all of that. It was the only example of anything like the most influential things I've gone through I have  
> found...  
> originally posted in 2017  
> <3


End file.
